


Interlude: Yours to Keep

by trashyeggroll



Series: Worth the Fall (ThunderGrace Boxing AU) [2]
Category: Black Lightning (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, There's no boxing in this boxing AU, Wedding Fluff, this will rot your teeth, thundergrace - Freeform, we are processing some feelings in this chili's tonight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-28 04:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashyeggroll/pseuds/trashyeggroll
Summary: Anissa and Grace navigate the road to their wedding day and finally say, "I do."





	1. Better By You

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to cover JUST the wedding, but there are some romance/family tropes I wanted to do with ThunderGrace and Hanh. Perhaps I also got carried away. 
> 
> You can skip to Chapter 2 if you just want the wedding stuff; all of it will still make sense. Chapter 1 is all worldbuilding and character development.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the wedding, Anissa, Grace, and Hanh fly to California to meet Lynn. Anissa meets Hanh's father.

_LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA_

When the plane wheels touch down with a couple gentle bumps, Anissa jerks awake, giving her cloudy head a shake. Adding to her confusion is what seems like blindness, until she remembers the sleep mask hugging her head and tugs it off. The warm airplane cabin is bright enough that she has to close her eyes again to adjust, and she takes the opportunity for a gratuitous yawn before opening them once more.

Outside the small window to her left, the sprawl of LAX welcomes her to her adolescent home, bustling as always. She tracks the movement of luggage caravans, gasoline trucks, and workers in reflective vests while the captain comes over the speakers, thanks them for _“flying with Delta Airlines today.”_

This had been the first time Anissa indulged in first class tickets, and as their long day of flying comes tauntingly close to an end, she has to admit that it was well worth it for the extra room for Hanh than anything else, even though the chunky toddler had been more or less behaved throughout this leg of the flight. Despite having her own seat, she’s currently fast asleep with her head in Grace’s lap and legs curled over Anissa’s.

She turns to find her fiancé (and that’s still a weird label to think) looking out the window over her shoulder, and after exchanging a peck on the lips, Anissa asks quietly, “You wanna get something to eat first or go straight to my mom’s?”

“In ‘n’ Out?” murmurs the artist, shifting to start the process of gathering up to leave the plane. “Greasy burgers and fries sounds like true happiness right now.”

“We can _definitely_ make that happen.” Anissa slings her chest pack bag around her shoulders, then gingerly peels Hanh from their laps. The kid makes piteous, unhappy noises, and bleary red eyes open briefly, but she settles down when Anissa pulls her against her chest to go back to sleep. She’s got those puffy red indentions in her cheeks from laying on her mother’s jeans, and it’s so adorable that Anissa can’t help but give her a kiss on the forehead, which earns her warning grumbles from Hanh and a matching tone of raised eyebrow from Grace.

Getting off the plane without having to wait an extra thirty minutes is nice too, and it isn’t long before they have their checked suitcases in hand. The rental car is next on the to-do list, and Anissa feels her cheeks heat when she notices there’s a black CRV parked near the front labeled “RESERVED, ANISSA PIERCE” right next to a sleek Tesla that says “RESERVED, NICK SCOTT.” Their rep has already installed a car seat, which Anissa checks (see: completely removes and puts back so she _knows_ it’s right), and then they’re on their way…

Or, stuck in LA traffic.

The boxer suddenly recalls _that_ aspect of her old life with crystal clarity as they inch along Interstate 405, Noah Cyrus coming through the SUV speakers. Hanh’s fully awake now, chattering away to her stuffed panda in the back, and Grace is holding Anissa’s hand more tightly than seems strictly necessary over the center console, jaw flexing as she looks out the passenger window.

“Nervous?” prods Anissa, not teasing, but with a light tone.

Grace has a cloudy expression when she turns, but it quickly melts into a small smile. “Yeah… but only because I want this to go well. I know how important your mom is to you.”

Returning her eyes to the Prius in front of them, Anissa lifts the artist’s hand to press her lips to the knuckles one by one, with overly dramatic kissy noises, until Grace is chuckling and tugging her arm back.

“Ma’s gonna love you, babe,” the fighter tries to assure her. “Lynn can be tough, but she’s one of the most patient and compassionate people on the planet. And I promise, as soon as she sees all the things that _I_ love, she’ll love you, too.”

Grace clicks her tongue and huffs self-consciously, like she usually does when Anissa’s using sugary words to this end, but in her periphery, the fighter can see her fiancé’s posture relaxing.

 _“Mẹ!_ Anissa!” shouts Hanh from the backseat. The abrupt volume spike is a new habit the toddler’s somehow picked up, especially in small, enclosed spaces. “Look a’ the dog!”

The boxer checks the rearview mirror to see where the kid is pointing. In the left lane, a black pickup truck is rumbling up beside them with a huge yellow labrador hanging its blocky head out the passenger window. She rolls down the rear window for Hanh to screech her hello at the dog before it passes, mouth lolled open in a smile.

“Hanh’s not nervous at all, see? Already made a friend,” jokes Anissa after closing the window again.

“Hanh wouldn’t be nervous to meet the Pope,” counters her fiancé flatly.

“That’s right, because Hanh’s the queen of everything, right girl?”

“I am. I am,” agrees the toddler with enough natural royalty in her small voice to have even Grace breaking down into another laugh.

* * *

Dr. Lynn Stewart is well aware that she has no (real) reason to be nervous about meeting her daughter’s fiancé and future step-granddaughter. She’s on her home turf, literally. She’s heard plenty of detailed reports from both Anissa and Jen, and for all intents and purposes, Grace seems like a very nice person, and her daughter sounds like a lovely toddler, or as lovely as any child that age possibly could be. These are things Lynn _knows._ They still don’t help much with the uneasy feeling in her stomach.

Anissa’s never brought _anyone_ home before, much less someone with whom she’s recently gotten _engaged._ That part seems beyond processing for her eldest, who had always been so focused on her own path: at school, and then work, and always with the fighting, of course. Lynn was proud of her daughter for that drive—even the boxing part, at least in principle. So for the last twenty-five years or so, she had hardly batted an eye at Anissa’s consistently fleeting interest the young women literally and metaphorically throwing themselves at her. She’s vaguely aware of a few who made it past a first date, but Anissa had always seemed so unbothered by their quick departures that Lynn didn’t press. Maybe she should’ve taken the lack of reaction under more careful consideration. This was all just _such_ a big leap—and the mother’s instinct in her was bound to worry, at least until she’s had the chance to truly get to know Grace Choi.

And that’s why she’s standing fitfully in the spotless white marble entryway to her home, Jen lobbing mocking comments at her from the nearby living room, for a solid twenty minutes before their Ring security camera shows a vehicle pulling up to the gate.

“They’re here,” Lynn announces with only a slight waver to her voice, and she smooths imaginary wrinkles from her blouse as she watches the SUV on the security display screen.

Jen joins her, mid-eyeroll. “Ma, relax. Just remember: Grace is gonna be way more afraid of you than you are of her.”

“Isn’t that bees? Or, snakes?”

“And spiders, but it’s also Grace.” Her youngest pats her shoulder and seems to be enjoying all this far too much. “Hanh and I are tight, but you’re on your own with her. We’re particular people. It’s a taste thing.”

“Not helping,” singsongs Lynn, heart leaping into her throat at the sound of car doors shutting.

“Try smiling, maybe. But what do I know?”

Plastering on her best grin, Lynn opens the door before Anissa’s hand hits the doorbell, and despite her nerves, the sight of her daughter in the flesh for the first time in months has relief and joy flushing the anxiety from her chest. They immediately embrace, Lynn pressing her cheek against Anissa’s, breathing deeply the familiar scent of her eldest. The boxer could be world champion ten times over, and Lynn would still feel like she was hugging that jaded, scrawny kid she brought home years ago.

“I missed you, Ma,” says Anissa into her shoulder, and Lynn pulls back to get a better look. Her oldest is thinner, but more muscular than when she’d left, and there’s a new, thin scar splitting her brow, a trophy from the world title fight.

“I missed you, too, sweetie. Now, are you gonna introduce us properly?” Going into Mom Mode helps her produce a genuine smile to greet Grace Choi in the flesh for the first time.

Nodding and with a widening smile, Anissa puts a hand to the small of the woman’s back. “Grace, this is my mom, Dr. Lynn Stewart, and Ma, this is Grace Choi.”

The Fiancé is a slender woman, slightly taller than Anissa, wearing a plaid button-down with cutoff sleeves over a gray tank top and blue jeans, casual as anything, but nevertheless _stunning._ There’s a self-horrifying moment where Lynn hesitates, facing the beautiful stranger and feeling completely unsure of what to do. Shake hands? Wave?

 _Jefferson would have hugged,_ her mind whispers. This, she knows in her soul, and so she opens her arms, and Grace accepts. The artist smells like jasmine and baby powder, and the embrace seems earnest enough, though respectably brief. Lynn pulls back to say, “It is so, so nice to properly meet you, Grace.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” replies Grace, quietly, and then she looks down, drawing Lynn’s eyes to follow.

“And this is Hanh, the one and only,” adds Anissa when their attentions all land on the third visitor.

Two suspicious, almond-shaped brown eyes are looking up at Lynn, and she recognizes the toddler’s round cheeks from FaceTime and the occasional picture from Anissa. Hanh is almost completely obscured from her spot behind Anissa’s legs, just barely peeking out like a prey animal taking stock of the scene. It’s surreal, for her daughter to have left for less than a year and come back with a fully formed child, cute as she is in her little maroon jumper.

“Hi, sweetie,” greets Lynn, waving, but not moving towards the clearly bashful kid, not wanting to make her more nervous.

Grace says something in Vietnamese, and Hanh shuffles out into the open, but she grabs Anissa’s hand tightly, just barely tall enough to hold the boxer’s fingers. It makes Lynn’s heart do a strange loop-de-loop to see the toddler seek comfort from her daughter, and she has to clear her throat before she can speak again.

“Let’s get you all inside, I’m sure you’re exhausted,” she offers, haltingly. “We have plenty of time to get to know each other better.”

Jen appears in the doorway, nearly crashing into Lynn as she turns, but her youngest barely notices when she stumbles past and scoops up a now-giggling Hanh to blow raspberries on her cheeks. It’s night and day to the nervous child from just a second earlier.

“See?” complains Anissa as she walks into the house with a hardcover suitcase in each hand. “Like they knew each other in a past life.”

 _“Jen,”_ chirps Lynn, tilting her head and raising her eyebrows expectantly.

“My bad—hi Grace, hi Anissa,” says the teen flatly, shifting Hanh onto one hip. “Dang, this girl’s like twice as heavy as last time.”

“Wait ‘til you hear her sentences.” Grace slings an arm over Jen’s shoulders as they head into the house, Lynn closing the door behind them.

While her daughter-in-law-to-be does a spin in place in the foyer, looking mildly baffled, Lynn clears her throat and rattles off her typical guest spiel: “Make yourself at home, of course. Anissa and Jen’s rooms are upstairs, so is the gym. Anything in the refrigerator is fair game—“

“Watch out for the tofu cheese, G,” warns Jen as she puts Hanh back down.

“—and the wine cellar, except for bottles in the glass case.”

“Uh, I think we got it, Ma,” mutters Anissa, squirming on her feet and sporting an expression that immediately transports Lynn back to the same daughter, sixteen years old, fretting over her mom’s ‘embarrassing’ habit of asking the then-teen’s friends basic questions like, _What’s your name?_

Except this time, it’s her completely adult daughter standing in front of her, and she can’t quite place the source of _this_ Anissa’s worried energy. She can blame it on weariness from travel for now, and offers the out gently: “I’ll let you two get settled. Yell if you need anything.”

* * *

While Jen follows Hanh around the living room, Grace trails behind Anissa up the foyer’s imperial staircase, all white-and-gray marble except for the deep burgundy runner rug expertly folded to the each individual step, from top to bottom. Anissa had warned her, repeatedly, that Dr. Lynn Stewart’s house was _big,_ but Grace had still been taken off guard when they pulled up to a beige stucco _palace,_ like what she used to see on MTV Cribs. Palm trees line the paved circle drive, and bright, exotic flowers leaning in languidly from all sides make the front yard look like a tropical paradise. It’s like she’s walking into a resort, rather than her future mother-in-law’s home.

The interior is comfortable, at least, clearly a home for a family and not just for showing off expensive taste, but still intimidating in full effect, all vaulted ceilings and crown molding. She spares a thought to the pristine cream carpets in the living rooms and hallways, just _knowing_ her beloved child is going to spill something terrible and ruinous on it before the week is over.

But despite her discomfort, Grace can’t help but linger in the upstairs hallway, grinning at pictures of Anissa and Jen growing up: graduations, soccer teams, and school portraits, with Dr. Lynn Stewart practically ageless through it all. The daughters’ high school diplomas are framed at one end of the hall, Jen’s freshly printed, and at the other, there’s a professional picture of Anissa, probably when she was first brought home, smiling thinly while Jen, not much older than Hanh now, cheeses for the camera on her lap.

These bits of memory, photos lovingly framed and hung with care, as well as a massive home, are things Grace has never had. She keeps some of her old yearbooks in boxes in a closet and has a single letter envelope of some old 4x6 photos, but… This version of life, not the wealth, but the financial and psychological stability of it has never been Grace’s.

 _Until now,_ a helpful little voice whispers. Provided she makes it through the weekend with Lynn’s stamp of approval.

The artist lingers for so long in the hall by the time she looks up, her fiancé has disappeared into one of the rooms. It takes her peeking in a few doorways to find her way, but it isn’t difficult to recognize the fighter’s room before she sees the contender herself standing in it. Anissa had said she usually slept in the basement after college, so her room is a time-frozen shrine to the teenaged version of her, all angry reds and dark gray, with posters of Gabrielle Union, Alicia Keys, and Missy Elliott dominating the walls. Grace eyeballs the overstuffed bookshelf on one side of the room, noting the full Harry Potter series and several Tolkein tomes alongside typical high school fare, _Their Eyes Were Watching God, Grapes of Wrath,_ and _The Catcher in the Rye_ among plenty of other well-worn paperbacks.

“So, this is you?” breathes Grace when she notices Anissa’s watching her from across the room.

“In all my angry teen glory.” The boxer sits on the edge of the queen bed, giving Grace a peculiar smile.

The artist is nervous enough without her fiancé acting strangely, so her voice has more irritation than she intended when she quickly asks, “What’s that look for?”

Anissa shrugs, unfazed by her tone. “It’s just... surreal, seeing you in this room. In this house, I guess. Like puzzle pieces coming together.”

Grace’s cheeks heat with a rush of affection for this woman, and she plops on the bed next to her. “This house is… _really_ nice.”

“I know it’s a lot,” says the fighter quickly, like she’d been thinking about this response before Grace said anything to prompt it. “This is how I grew up, and I’m thankful for it every day—“

“Anissa,” interrupts Grace, going to far as to press her index finger to the boxer’s lips. “It’s okay. You _Crazy Rich Asian_ -d me, it’s fine.”

Thankfully, that makes the fighter laugh, the tension leaving her shoulders. They both lay back on the comforter, which smells fresh, likely laundered just before they arrived.

But more importantly, there’s an Ashanti poster on the ceiling, and Grace chuckles before she can stop it.

“She was my number one,” sighs Anissa wistfully.

“What was that song? With Ja Rule?” Grace knows _exactly_ what song it is, but as she’d hoped, her fiancé breaks into the tune enthusiastically.

 _“I’m not always there when you call, but I’m always on time,”_ trills the boxer, rolling to one shoulder, facing her now, to add, _“And I ga-ave you my all, now bab-ay be mine._ That what you’re thinking?”

“Mmm, maybe. How’d the rest of it go?”

Anissa dramatically drops her voice and huffs out in an impressive Ja imitation, _“Come on and get a piece of this late-night lover. You know, the one that swing dick like no other—“_

Laughing, Grace gives her a light smack on the shoulder, and Anissa growls as she drops over the artist and captures her lips, first jokingly pecking her lips and nibbling at her jaw, then relaxing a little, and finally melting into it. She slides a hand down to Grace’s hip and pushes it up under her shirt, leaving a tingling trail across the sensitive skin, and Grace has just about forgotten where they are when the universe drops the _full_ high school effect on them.

 _“Oh—_ “ Lynn’s startled noise from the doorway has Anissa leaping back, all the way to standing and somehow three feet away from the bed, leaving Grace to awkwardly yank her own shirt back over her stomach and sit up.

“Maaa!” protests Anissa, drawing out the syllable with a creaky whine, and fuck if she doesn’t sound exactly like a sixteen-year-old in this situation would. Grace might’ve found it comical if she wasn’t so mortified.

“I‘m sorry. Your door was open,” says Lynn weakly, but then she clears her throat and meets their eyes. “Well… I forgot what I came up here to tell you.”

“We’ll be downstairs in a second,” sighs the fighter, turning to Grace when her mom clears the premises. “I’m _so_ sorry, babe.”

“Oh my God, I’m in high school all over again. I’m not gonna be able to look your mom in the eye,” groans Grace as she collapses back on the bed, bringing a hand up to massage her forehead. “Getting caught with your hand up my shirt—this is your fault.”

 _“My_ fault?”

“You started it, and then you left me out to dry.”

Anissa smirks, but extends a hand to help her up off the bed. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

After launching a red pillow at her fiancé’s head, Grace rolls to her feet and sighs, “You can’t keep saying stuff like that to me in your mother’s house.”

“Stuff like what?” The boxer had easily batted away the projectile, and she puts on one of _those_ smirks, one that makes Grace’s core pulse so automatically these days that it might as well be a natural reflex. Not that she minds all that much, except perhaps for this particular setting.

“Torture me all you want,” she challenges, voice low as she walks past her fiancé to the door. “But I know for a fact you get just as worked up teasing me, so just think about how that can come around and bite you in that top shelf ass.”

“So you _are_ thinkin’ about my ass, in my _mother’s_ house?”

Grace flips her the bird over her shoulder.

* * *

Hanh has already broken into the pile of sparkling new toys Lynn bought for the visit, talking excitedly to Jen as they play with a Doc McStuffins set on the floor.

Lynn is looking as casual as possible on the couch, and Anissa gives her a cautious grin when she looks up from her tablet, but no one mentions the _incident_ as the couple takes seats next to her. Still, Grace has a vice grip on her upper arm, and the fighter tries her best to smooth the jagged edges of the mood in the room, making sure to involve Grace in the ensuing conversation as much as possible—it’s difficult, since they keep getting into the weeds with in-family references and stories of the “you had to be there” kind. The artist handles it with a smile, and it does provide some prime revelations about young Anissa; some of the tales will no doubt be brought up teasingly later.

“And what about you, Grace?”

“Me?” coughs her fiancé, having been in the middle of a sip of water.

“Your parents live in New Orleans?”

Anissa tenses, seeing the oncoming storm from her mother’s line of questioning, but it isn’t her story to tell (or not). But to her credit, Grace’s polite grin falters for only a split second, and Anissa squeezes her fiancé’s knee.

“They, uh, both passed away, actually.”

Lynn’s eyebrows furrow, and her expression softens genuinely for the first time since they’d shown up at the door. “Oh, I… I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I’m certainly not alone in that boat.” Grace’s eyes flicker to one of Jefferson’s framed portraits on the wall. “They went through a lot, in the war, and then they brought it all here with them. They had their demons, and the vices that go with them.”

Before she can go on, Lynn leans forward to touch Grace’s hand. “It would be wrong to say that I understand,” says her mother gently, evenly. “But this family certainly knows a thing or two about loss, and about coming together.”

Anissa’s anxiety about the meeting of these two monumentally important women fades, just a little, and eventually, Hanh’s insisting on exploring other rooms of the house, no longer satisfied with her personal hoard of toys. Grace demurely excuses herself to follow the toddler while Anissa, Jen, and Lynn move out to the back, which overlooks their pool and, beyond, the neighborhood’s private lake. It’s a full, covered entertaining space in and of itself, with a grill, paved floor, wrought iron dining table with eight matching chairs, a gas fireplace surrounded by a horseshoe of bean bags and blankets, and a mini-fridge stocked with soda and beer.

Anissa grabs a bottle of the latter - Red Stripe - and uses an opener from the table to pop off the top. The brew smells and tastes like nights that seem so far away now, spent pensively watching Jefferson Pierce interviews in the basement and shadow boxing her projector.

“Grace is very sweet,” her mother’s saying over a glass of red wine. “And so is Hanh, but I’m beginning to see why you had such trouble with that child.”

The fighter chuckles as she flicks her bottle cap at Jen. It sails wide, and she just gets flipped the bird in response. Two middle fingers in as many hours; she was truly home.

 _“Jennifer,”_ scolds Lynn, but with no real bite.

Her sister goes on as if nothing happened, “So, you guys gonna do Disneyland while you’re here?”

“Eh, I think Hanh’s too young. She’d probably cry at every eight foot chipmunk walking around, not that I blame her. I’d rather go when she’s old enough to get on some cool rides.”

“I don’t know, might take a few extra years to hit that minimum height.”

They banter back and forth for a few minutes before the boxer notices Lynn’s not participating like she usually would, just running a finger over the lip of her wine glass and staring off into space. It’s an odd enough behavior, at least for her typically sharp-edged mother.

“Everything okay, Ma?” ventures the boxer with raised eyebrows.

“Hm?” Lynn blinks slowly, clearly coming back to the moment, before she replies, “I’m fine, sweetie.”

Immediately, Jen exchanges an incredulous look with her sister and tries to help by offering, “You do seem a little… stiff?”

Sniffing, Lynn sets down the stemless glass and tenses her jaw in a familiar expression. It was usually reserved for protesting Anissa’s boxing career. “I am fine, girls. This is just a… somewhat strange situation.”

Anissa narrows her eyes. “Strange? Strange how?”

“It’s just—there’s this whole, huge part of your life that I haven’t been a part of, and it’s… strange, for me.”

“Ma, we talk, like, _all_ the time, and Grace and I have been here for all of five minutes.” Anissa pauses, her own frustration rising. They hadn’t come to visit for approval or some kind of a go-ahead. She was a whole adult, not a teenager getting picked up by a date for prom. “She’s my _fiancé._ It’s pretty straightforward.”

“Yes, and you’re only _just_ now bringing her home. I know you feel strongly for her, but we’re talking about the rest of your life here.”

Any chance of deescalation dissipates as her mother’s tone and words hit Anissa in the chest one by one, each as painful as a clean gut punch. “Where is this _coming_ from? We were just having a chill day, and now this?”

“I’m your mother, Anissa, and I just have some concerns. It’s my job to worry.”

“You _don’t_ have to worry about Grace. She’s the love of my _life_ . Do you really think I’d ask someone to marry me without giving it a _little_ thought?”

“Okay, you two, let’s take a deep breath—“ Jen starts to interrupt, holding out her hands, but it’s too late.

Lynn forges on: “You’ve been through _so much_ in the last year, and I understand how strong a first love can be, but also how that can affect judgment. This is all very fast for _marriage;_ you two are barely out of the honeymoon stage—“

The _click_ of the back door opening makes the three women freeze and look up. Humming loudly like an incoming plane, Hanh darts out of the house with her panda bear in hand, completely oblivious to the adults’ tension as she beelines for the bean bags.

As for her mother, Grace moves much more slowly onto the patio, eyes cautious and suggesting she senses the awkwardness in the air _just_ fine. “Sorry… I can take her back inside.”

“No, no,” blurts Lynn, convincingly cheerily. “Sit, it’s a beautiful day, and you’re on vacation. I’ll keep an eye on Hanh.”

Anissa flashes a smile that’s probably much less persuasive as her fiancé sits next to her at the table, immediately grabbing the fighter’s beer and finishing it in one long (and very impressive) draw.

Jen jumps in to continue conversation like nothing happened, and they make it to dinner under believably civil pretenses, except for the spoonful of mashed potatoes that Hanh launches from her booster seat onto the nearest wall. There’s plenty more memories of Anissa and Jen in childhood to cover, plus the more Grace-friendly subject of the younger sister attending Tulane in the fall, plans for housing and things she can’t miss during the fall semester. Through it all, Anissa can tell her mother’s still upset, but it’s all subtle cues with Lynn, the angle of her posture and the speed at which she downs her red wine. A younger version of the boxer would’ve been unable to resist throwing occasional shade over their _disagreement,_ but she doesn’t want Grace to pick up on—and potentially assume blame for—the continuing tension.

Between the long day of travel and time zone changes, Anissa and her little crew turn in shortly after dinner, and closing the door of her room is a unique sort of relief. The feeling, however, is short lived; Hanh’s fussy at the change in routine, and the toddler manages to break one of the fighter’s high school pottery class bowls before they wrestle her into her pajamas and, after some dramatic sobbing, _finally_ to sleep in the small trundle bed Jen set up for her.

Suffice it to say, Anissa’s in a soured mood by the time she climbs into bed next to Grace’s slender form. After a beat where they’re laying a few inches apart, her fiancé silently scoots her butt back into the cradle of Anissa’s hips, encouraging the boxer to put an arm over her waist. She takes the offered had and begins to gently massage Anissa’s palm and forearm, which makes the fighter’s body instantly relax, like a cat picked up by its scruff.

Nuzzling into silky black hair, Anissa considers how much energy it might take to get all of it off her chest. She doesn’t want to worry her fiancé with Lynn’s objections, but it also feels off-putting to not share and process the spat with her. The fighter’s gotten used to talking to the artist about _everything._

“You’re squirming, babe,” murmurs Grace, like she can hear the thoughts rattling around Anissa’s skull. “You wanna talk about it?”

Of course Grace knows. She always knows, whether it’s a particularly difficult training session or disagreement with her team, even just one of those off days of nothing going right. So Anissa presses herself closer to the artist's back, hoping it’s a reassuring gesture. “I’m good. It’s been a really long day. Sleep.”

“M’kay.” Grace pats her hand, and Anissa can tell by the way the artist’s breathing settles that she’s halfway asleep, even as she manages to say, “Go easy on your mom. You brought home a… bisexual poledancer… with an art degree and a kid.”

At that, Anissa has to chuckle, and then Grace’s breathing evens out, and the fighter soon follows her fiancé and future stepdaughter into sleep.

_HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA_

The next morning, Anissa takes Grace, Hanh, and Jen out for breakfast burritos, with Lynn heading into her clinic for a half day. Whatever angst from the day before, it’s at least temporarily forgotten as the three women chat excitedly through the meal, with the toddler interjecting her very important, nonsensical opinions at every opportunity. She has the elderly waitress quickly wrapped around her little finger and gets a free scoop of cinnamon ice cream before they leave.

For a few hours, they mostly drive around in the rental car, checking out landmarks and “tourist to-dos”: Pictures in front of the Hollywood Sign and the Walk of Fame, where Grace and Hanh get pictures with Lucy Liu and Anna May Wong’s stars. Madame Tussauds’ wax museum is definitely off the table, and Anissa blames that on the potential trauma it could inflict on Hanh, but she hears Jen whisper to Grace from the backseat: _“They freak Anissa the fuck out”_ and chooses to pretend like she didn’t hear.

After cruising down Sunset Boulevard, admiring street performers, dogs in strollers, and plenty more California-flavored people watching, they find a scenic spot to stop and take pictures in front of a dazzling Laurel Canyon view. Mansions dot the sweeping hills that seem to go on forever, rising out of the trees like part of the landscape.

“Here, you two and Hanh,” urges Jen, waving a hand dismissively at Grace’s insistence they could all take a selfie. “You three need a nice pic from this trip, ‘kay? Get over there.”

Shuffling into the area indicated by her sister, Anissa is a little too hot from being in the car on a sunny day and a little hungry, so she isn’t _quite_ paying attention when she hears Hanh say, “Mama, up.”

And she doesn’t _quite_ register what’s happening when her fiancé reaches down, but Hanh backs up, shaking her head and wiggling away from Grace’s arms.

In fact, it isn’t until Grace’s soft, breathless _“You want Mama to hold you?”_ that her brain catches up to the plot. Hanh doesn’t call Grace ‘Mama’—she’s Mom, Mommy, or _Mẹ…_ but ‘Mama’, until this moment, has only ever been what Grace calls Anissa when talking to the toddler…

 _Oh._ Anissa cautiously looks down to find Hanh is not the least bit amused by the boxer’s frozen posture. She whines and holds expectant, chubby arms higher, jaw setting in such a Grace-esque way that it might’ve made Anissa laugh if she weren’t on the verge of losing her cool, hot tears stinging her eyes.

“Mama, up,” repeats Hanh, louder. “Please.”

“Okay, okay,” Anissa manages to choke out, hauling the toddler up and into a tight hug. It makes the kid growl and squirm, the weight of the moment completely lost on her, but Hann breaks into giggles when Anissa pulls back to kiss all over her cheeks.

Grace slides an arm over the boxer’s shoulders, grabbing a quick kiss on the lips for herself, and uses her other hand to wipe away tears from under both their eyes.

“That is the cutest thing… I have ever seen.”

Laughing, Anissa remembers what they were doing and looks up at her equally emotional little sister. “Take the picture, Leibovitz. This is a moment.”

Jen turns her phone sideways and holds it up, counting off, “One, two, three—“

“Cheese!” crows Hanh.

It takes a few minutes of walking around for Anissa to pull herself together, and then they head east towards Freeland, where they’re going to meet Lynn. Lunch on the way is Jen’s pick, and they end up at a Pizza Press, mercifully missing the midday rush. Grace takes Hanh to the bathroom to change her diaper while they wait (potty training was put on hold for vacation) for their food.

“What?” prompts the fighter when she sees her sister giving her a sideways look.

“That was pretty heavy back there, ‘Mama,’” replies Jen casually. “You… wanna talk about it?”

“No, it’s just…” Anissa pauses and inwardly curses her sister for forever being able to needle out her insecurities, like it’s her superpower. “I just hope I don’t let her down. Either of them.”

“Don’t think about it like that. How would you even let them down? You gonna cheat?”

“What? No—“

“You gonna let that hard head of yours win? You gonna be all ‘tough guy asshole’ to your family? Never home?”

“No.” Anissa sighs, leaning back against her chair as the waitress drops off their drinks.

“Damn right. I’d kick your ass for that anyway. And for what it’s worth…” Jen’s expression softens, and she pats her older sister’s hand where it rests on the table. “Anissa, I know _for a fact_ that you’re going to be a fantastic ‘Mama’.”

Anissa’s jaw clicks shut so abruptly she almost bites her tongue, and another surge of emotion hits her between her ribs. Her current status is somehow such a far cry from its rock bottom, alone and in juvenile detention, that she can’t imagine what good deed she did in another life to have come so far.

And Jen, as if sensing that she’s caught her sister off guard, takes advantage of the opening to continue, “Speaking of—you know _our_ mom didn’t say what she said because she doesn’t like Grace, right?”

The jolt from affection to irritation is sudden, almost physical, and Anissa huffs before replying, “Yeah, but it _does_ mean that she thinks we shouldn’t get married.”

“That’s also _not_ what she said, Anissa,” counters her sister, in a tone that suggests she’s already three moves ahead in this conversation. “You are so damn stubborn.”

It’s a somewhat timely reminder of the two-way street of family, love and headaches alike, but Anissa can still feel the suckerpunch of hurt from her mother’s rejection of the life that makes her happy beyond belief. “Then what _did_ she say, Jen? It’s not like she hasn’t met Grace before, on-on FaceTime or—“

“Mom hasn’t seen _you_ in person since you moved away,” interrupts the trackstar, firm but gentle. “She missed out on _a lot._ All she wants is for you to look her in the eye and answer the questions. So she can _know_ you’re doing okay, and you’re happy. Just talk to her, without all that attitude.”

And like always, Anissa knows Jen’s right, and she can’t help but tug her in for a tight hug. “Who taught you to mediate like you do?”

“Years of listening to you two miscommunicate yourselves into shouting matches. One day I’m sending a bill.”

They’re laughing as Grace and Hann return to the table, and Anissa feels much better about meeting up with her mother again that afternoon.

_FREELAND, CALIFORNIA_

Lynn arrives early to the cemetery where Jefferson Pierce was laid to rest, in his hometown of Freeland. It’s a small operation, but the Pierce estate paid a significant sum to improve its security and upkeep for all plots. They’d also established a fund for those in the local community who couldn’t afford a proper burial, helping them lay their loved ones to rest respectfully, instead of in a plastic box from the city incinerator. Jefferson would have loved it, so to speak—he loved anything, really, that helped lift up neighborhoods that needed it, big or small. That was his passion, as deeply held as his love for boxing, even if the latter ultimately ruled his life.

With his smiling face weighing heavy in her mind, Lynn treks from her car with a bouquet of bright flowers, purples and reds with striking white bursts in between. No matter how many times she visits, Lynn feels the pain of the loss as deeply as that first night, an endless ache that’s never healed “with time” as people said—she’s just learned to live with it, like an open wound.

The Pierce family’s private tomb is the only above-ground structure in the cemetery, a square building made of gray stone, with a wrought iron gate blocking entry. She pauses to consider bouquets of flowers in various states of decay laying in front of the doors, ones that caring strangers have left for her late husband, and it helps give her the peace to unlock the gate with steady hands.

Inside, there are eight spaces, seven of which sit empty. The single marble plaque on the wall across from the door says:

_Jefferson Alvin Pierce_

_1958 - 1994_

_“Justice, like lightning, should ever appear to some men hope, and to other men fear.”_

It seems like a lifetime ago. It _is_ a lifetime ago. Nearly twenty-six years, in fact—three months before, unbeknownst to them, Anissa would be born to Nikita Washington, a law clerk and part-time waitress.

As if summoned by the thought, the gate to the private tomb creaks, and Lynn turns to see Anissa Washington herself standing there, alone. “Hey, Ma.”

Lynn swallows the lump in her throat. The hesitation, the tense jaw—they might as well be back in the detention center room, haltingly learning that both their lives were about to change forever. She supposes that this is as close to such an event as they’ve been since; their family stands on a precipice. “Hi, honey. Where’s your posse?”

“In the car. I figured we should have a minute... to talk.”

Lynn nods, grateful. The air hangs heavy with the weight of Jefferson Pierce, the absent man who she can practically see looking back at her in Anissa’s stern face, and the reason her headstrong, intelligent, and loving daughter is even in her life in the first place. Both of their eyes automatically wander to his plaque, and the fighter moves into the tomb until she’s standing next to Lynn, hands shoved in the pockets of her joggers.

“It’s been too long since I’ve been here,” murmurs Anissa. “Too long since I’ve been home.”

“And that’s at least partly my fault,” replies Lynn steadily. “I pushed you away.”

“Water under the bridge. But… what happened yesterday, that was—it really hurt, Ma.”

“That’s… That’s fair, and I’m sorry, sweetie. It was not the time, the place, or the _way_ to bring up those… insecurities.”

Anissa nods and slides closer, shoulders still slightly hunched. “And I shouldn’t have snapped at you like I did. I let my emotions get the better of me. Can we try this again?”

“It’s all right, you don’t have to—“

“No, it’s important. You’re my mom. I want you to see in Grace the things I see, the things I love.”

That punches the air from Lynn’s lungs, and she feels heat tugging at her eyes. Nikita Washington herself is buried just outside this tomb, with Lynn and Anissa having arranged for her remains to be transported to this place years ago, out of a city plot and with a proper headstone. Somehow, _that_ particular pain, a betrayal never answered for, has faded to almost nothing over the years. She just hopes Nikita would be happy with how Lynn’s raised their daughter in her stead.

Sniffling, the taller woman wraps an arm over Anissa’s shoulders, and the boxer rests her head on her shoulder. “I believe that you love Grace, and I believe that she loves you. But the kind of relationship that survives twenty, thirty, _fifty_ years of marriage can be very different than for less than a year of dating.”

“I understand what you’re saying, I do. So what I’m asking for is your trust, and some benefit of the doubt… that I know, in my soul, that Grace Choi is the love of my life. We had some stuff to work through at first, still working on some things, but… I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“All I want is for you to be happy, healthy, and well loved, sweetie. I will support you, and Grace, and your children, for as long as those things remain true.”

Anissa squeezes her tight as they turn to hug properly, burying her face in Lynn‘s shirt. Though she can still see that scrappy, lost kid in the now-storied boxer, it’s deeply comforting to see her oldest at such peace with herself and her life choices.

When they part, they turn to consider Jefferson’s grave in silence, until the rest of the family joins them. Anissa and Grace visit Nikita’s grave so that she can get an introduction to her daughter’s fiancé, too, before they all head back to the Stewart home, where the air is much lighter than it had been the night before.

_WESTMINSTER, CALIFORNIA_

_“Cảm ơn, chị,”_ Grace says to the woman who hands her a paper plate, on which sits a bright green waffle that makes Anissa’s eyes narrow with suspicion.

“You’re certain it’s _not_ durian?”

The artist laughs as she tears off a chunk with her free hand. Little white coconut bits stick out from the jagged edge, and the green is even brighter inside, like a key lime pie. “It’s pandan and coconut only, I promise.”

Pandan, Anissa had recently learned, is a flavor she does really enjoy. It’s subtle, somewhere between melon and banana if she had to put words to it, and for the life of her she has no idea what a “pandan” actually is (fruit? vegetable?). Durian, or _sầu riêng,_ as she’d learned to spot it on menus, had once been used in a senior prank at her high school to fake a gas leak, so everyone could go home for the day. At its lightest, she can appreciate the taste, but once that smell took hold of her sinuses—it just _wasn’t_ her jam.

The waffle, thankfully, is life-changingly good, and Anissa ends up eating three quarters of it as they stroll through the Night Market, which is almost like a mini-music-festival in the parking lot of a huge shopping and dining space called Phước Lộc Thọ. Four huge concrete statues of legendary figures in robes overlook the revelry, which includes seemingly endless food vendors and music, the space teeming with people. Of the former, Anissa knows she’s going to have an upset stomach later, having wolfed down barbeque chicken kebabs, a bánh mì with all the fixings, and a scallion pancake... in addition to the waffle.

But with Jen and Lynn watching Hanh for the evening, Anissa’s feeling footloose to be out on the town with her fiancé, just the two of them, for the first time in what feels like months (and the reality is probably closer than she’d like to admit).

The lyrics of the live music might’ve been in Vietnamese, but anyone can understand a beat and a melody, and Anissa convinces Grace to dance with her in front of the small stage, where a man with an impressive pompadour is singing over a prerecorded background track. He melts out of her mind quickly enough, as does everyone and everything else, when Grace presses up against her, smiling a feline smile, and her hands land on the artist’s hips, squeezing to bring her closer.

“It’s been awhile,” murmurs her fiancé near her cheek, “since we’ve been out of the house past eight.”

“Right about now… I’d prefer to be in private, I think.”

Grace chuckles, the breaths puffing softly past her ear, but doesn’t help the situation when she presses her lips to the base of Anissa’s neck, the edges of her teeth grazing sensitive skin. The fighter nearly chokes when Grace grinds her hips forward, one leg slipping between her knees. They’re well hidden from most of the festival by other dancers, but Anissa still has to consciously stop herself from sliding her hands up the artist’s shirt, instead hooking her thumbs through belt loops on Grace’s jeans.

“I’m never gonna get tired of this.” Anissa had intended for the words to come out smoothly, but with her fiancé pressed up against her like this, it’s more like a breathless, lovestruck confession. That’s what it truly is, she has to admit.

And in a far cry from their first introductions, the artist flashes an amused smile at the fumbling fighter. “Good. Because you’re marrying ‘this’, remember? To have and to hold, forever?”

She’s getting experienced enough at reading Grace to hear the subtext of the joke, the little kernel of truth her fiancé’s not going to vocalize. But she tries to soothe the insecurity anyway, bringing their foreheads together as her eyes slip closed. “I think about that fact every day when I wake up, and every night when I go to sleep. Even sometimes when I’m making Hanh go potty in the middle of the night, but less often.”

It works, and Grace laughs against her lips before pulling her in for a proper kiss, her hands braced on the fighter’s shoulders.

When the vocalist takes a break, they get cups of sugarcane juice that set Anissa’s teeth on edge despite being _delicious,_ and they’re people-watching from a spot between two vendor stalls when a voice interrupts them:

“Grace?”

The artist looks up and makes a noise of surprise, but then she immediately moves toward the speaker: an Asian woman with a fade haircut and familiar smile.

“It has been _too_ long,” Grace is saying as the women embrace, and then they turn to Anissa. “This is Quang’s daughter, Thao. This is my fiancé, Anissa.”

“Thunder! I’ve heard a lot about you,” greets Thao, and immediately, the fighter can see Quang’s features in the woman’s round face. “And this is my wife, Emy.”

It’s only then that Anissa notices the white woman standing slightly behind Thao, grinning shyly. She’s got a haircut not unlike her wife’s, but golden-blonde, with green eyes and a broad frame.

The foursome retreats to a less bustling area where they can talk, and very quickly, Thao and Grace forget all about their partners, chatting in Vietnamese with the occasional random English addition, including “computer”, “patio”, and “paperback.”

“You figuring some of this out yet?” asks Emy with a friendly smile.

“Maybe not the words exactly, but there are phrases I know by sound, or rhythm,” answers Anissa, then she lowers her voice to add, “And definitely _đụ má.”_

The blonde chuckles and sips her Heineken. “Yeah, that stuff’ll come with time. I couldn’t read or write it if my life depended on it, but I can carry on a decent conversation.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Coming up on six years. We did the Canada thing.”

Anissa pauses when Grace reaches for her hand, blindly, not breaking from her conversation with Thao, and twines their fingers together.

Emy’s grinning at her when she looks back at the blonde. “So when’s the wedding?”

“Few months, down in New Orleans.”

“And... thinking about having more kids?”

That nearly makes Anissa drop her cup, and her jaw works silently as she considers the question. Hanh’s a handful even with two parents, and she and Grace haven’t talked about it… but the thought seeps into her mind like a root taking hold. She looks at Grace as she answers Emy with a simple, “Maybe. I think I’d like that, yeah.”

“Well, that’s fucking adorable, and congratulations.” Emy holds up her beer, and Anissa completes the cheers with her plastic cup.

After an hour’s worth of getting to know the Nguyen-Joneses, Grace announces in English that they have to stop by the other couple’s house before calling it a night. Anissa’s dragging a little with the time zone change, but she’s game, and they end up at a nearby one-story white stucco house in a tightly packed neighborhood.

Something that Anissa first reads as a guinea pig comes barreling at her as soon as they open the door, but Emy catches the thing mid-lunge and lifts it into her arms.

“Sorry about that. This little firebrand is Baby.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Anissa realizes the creature is a dog, a chunky brown and tan chihuahua. She offers her best smile and slides into the house with as wide of a berth as she can manage.

Grace and Thao are in the kitchen looking through the refrigerator, and Emy leads Anissa into the living room. The interior of the house is fairly nondescript, with tile floors throughout most of the space and sturdy, cherry-stained furniture holding lots of delicate-looking things, statues and vases, that would not last more than six minutes with Hanh in the vicinity.

Anissa sits on one of a three-couch set. “Should I be worried about what they’re doing in there?”

“Not unless you hate food,” offers Emy with a shrug.

They sit in mostly companionable silence while their other halves chatter away in the kitchen, until Anissa notices what looks like a small shrine on a floating shelf. There’s a black and white photo of a beautiful Asian woman next to one of the same woman, clearly several decades older, sitting in an armchair and smiling. A bowl of rice with spent incense sticks sits next to the framed pictures, along with small plates of fruit, plain rice, and shortribs of all things.

“What is that?” she wonders aloud, not entirely intentionally.

Emy follows her line of sight. “That’s Thao’s mom. Basically, when a loved one passes away, you keep their spirit close by offering their favorite food to enjoy in the afterlife.”

“Huh. I like that.” Anissa leans back on the couch, and Baby hops up next to her, looking much more friendly. She gives it a scratch behind the ears, a peace offering, and only has to wait another half hour before Grace is having her carry three plastic grocery bags worth of homemade food out to their car.

_LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA_

The week passes like nothing, with a day trip to the San Diego Zoo and plenty of eating all manner of foods they can’t get in Louisiana. There’s barbeque on the back patio and a night watching old home movies in the basement, until Grace falls asleep with her head in Anissa’s lap. There’s a Clippers game and Ugly Dolls in a fancy theater with food service at the seats. For the first time, their life has _nothing_ to do with boxing, or contracts and deadlines, trips to take business meetings: It’s just time together, as the family they’re about to become, in writing.

On the last day, Grace finds Lynn in the pool with Hanh, supporting the floaty-bedecked toddler against her side. They don’t notice her at first, and Grace feels something soft and warm unfurl in her belly at the sight—the older woman is practically aglow with joy as she looks down at Hanh, speaking in hushed tones and planting kisses on her forehead and cheeks.

She nods a polite greeting when Lynn looks up, but Hanh barely pays her any mind as she splashes with her rubber duck toy. Grace settles at the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the cool water.

“I’m sad to see you all go,” offers the older woman, wading closer. “The house will feel so empty.”

Grace tilts her head, distracted by a SeeDo bouncing across the lake, and then says, “Thank you, for this week. It’s been really, really nice. I don’t think Anissa and I have spent this much time together in months.”

Lynn studies her from behind dark sunglasses as Hanh continues smacking her duck against the water, and she sucks in a deep breath as if to steel herself for the next words: “Grace, I… I know that I’ve been somewhat _reserved_ with you.”

Suddenly nervous, Grace splutters, “Oh, that’s—It’s okay, really.”

“No, I think I owe you an explanation. I can be sharp, but I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”

The artist realizes Lynn’s actually waiting for her to respond, so she nods, resisting the inclination to shrug.

“When Anissa came home with me, it took a very long time to earn her trust, _years_ of patience and love, and I’ve been particularly protective of her ever since. This last year notwithstanding.” Lynn clears her throat. “But I want to be _very_ clear: I could not be happier that she’s found you and this baby.”

“I’m _not_ baby,” protests Hanh, eyebrows furrowing, and some of the heaviness in the air lifts. “ _Bà nội_ , I’m not baby.”

“No, of course not, sweetheart,” says the older woman teasingly, but it seems to appease the toddler. Lynn turns back to Grace to continue, “You’re an extraordinary woman with a beautiful child, and if my hard-headed daughter gives you any trouble, you call me, first thing. I’ll set her straight.”

They share a laugh, perhaps genuinely for the first time together, and Hanh giggles along, oblivious.

Grace has to swallow a lump in her throat before she manages to reply, “Thank you, for saying that. I promise I’ll protect her, too. Hanh and I are lucky to have all three of you in our lives now.”

 _“Bà nội, cho con nước táo?”_ interrupts the aforementioned kid, sticking out her bottom lip.

Grace reaches for the sippy cup sitting on the concrete nearby, holding it out as Lynn wades closer.

“She asked for her juice?” says the older woman as she passes it to Hanh.

“Yeah, _cho con_ —she wants something if she’s saying that. Trust me, you’ll hear it a lot.”

“And what was the first part she keeps saying? Bah-noy?”

The artist offers a grin as she says, “Grandma.”

“Oh.” Lynn’s eyes are shining wetly as she smiles, gives another little laugh, and kisses the toddler on one of her still-chubby cheeks.

_MIAMI, FLORIDA_

After hug-laden goodbyes and promises to see each other soon, there’s just one more introduction to do before heading home. Grace, Anissa, and Hanh fly straight from Los Angeles to Miami, both to get this out of the way and drop off Hanh for her quarterly visit to her father… who is also the person Anissa needs to meet. They’d spoken over the phone a handful of times, and she’d seen him talking to Hanh over FaceTime once or twice, but Anissa’s eager to rip off this particular bandaid and keep moving forward. She’s not overly worried about it, but keeps her expectations cautious—the guy isn't Grace’s ex, not per se, but he _is_ going to be a constant presence in their lives until Hanh reaches adulthood, and therefore an important person in their relationship nonetheless.

They’d arranged to meet at a Chinese buffet near the airport, and the parking lot’s packed when they pull up to the location in their Lyft. Before getting out of the car, Grace reaches over to grab Anissa’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “You okay?” she asks quietly,

“Yeah—I’m fine. Just wanna get this over with. Better to know than to imagine, right?”

The artist nods, looking sympathetic, and gives her a quick kiss before they head inside the restaurant.

After a little searching through the bustling lunch crowd, Anissa sees someone waving at them, and then Hanh’s scurrying across the tile to the man. He’s a big guy, head and shoulders taller than Anissa, with a round belly and thick black beard, long hair pulled up into a high bun. Anissa can’t stop her stomach from curdling at the features in his broad face that strike as familiar: ones she’s seen in Hanh. He’s there in the shape of her face, the dimple on just one cheek, the way her legs are a little too short for her torso.

 _“Ba!”_ Hanh’s shrieks, throwing her arms up as the man hauls her into his own.

“Hey turtleduck,” he greets in a tenor voice. “Oh criminy, you’re _so_ heavy—I don’t know if I can hold ya…”

The toddler giggles non-stop as he pretends to let her slip out of his grip, catching her upside-down by one ankle before dragging her back upright for a kiss on the cheek.

It’s wholesome, sweet, and Anissa feels like every second of it is a needle in her spine. She pummels that jealousy down when he turns to the approaching women, forcing her lips into a smile.

“David Shi, so nice to meet you, finally,” he greets when they reach the table, shifting Hanh to one hip to extend his hand to the boxer. “Wow, uh… Sorry, I’m a—is it weird that I’m a fan of yours? That Killer Whale fight… Iconic.”

The praise is actually surprising enough that Anissa’s head involuntarily jerks back, but she quickly gets herself under control with a cough and chuckles as the cheeks visible above his beard redden. “Anissa, and I’m flattered, thank you. It’s really nice to meet you, too. I myself am a big fan of Hanh’s.”

“Aren’t we all?” he jokes back, and then clears his throat. His obvious nerves help calm hers, and for all intents and purposes, David Shi seems like a pleasant man.

“Hey, _anh,”_ says Grace next, giving him a quick hug. “Let’s grab food?”

“Sure, yeah.” He sets down the toddler, who decides to glue herself to Grace for the food selection part of the buffet. While those two put together a bizarre plate, Anissa and David end up back at the table together. His smiles still seem genuine, and Anissa’s clocking him for a gentle giant type as he politely asks questions about how their trip to California went and, surprisingly, a few about their upcoming wedding.

Eventually, though, he leans forward and says, “Look, uh… I know this is all a little weird, believe me, but I really do appreciate you coming down to meet me.”

“You’re Hanh’s father,” Anissa says, almost reflexively. “We’re all here for her, right?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles around a bite of sesame chicken and rice. “Exactly.”

“She’s quite the kid.”

“Surprise of my life,” he confirms. “But a good one.”

Despite the sudden loss of the ability to converse in more than the most basic of sentences, Anissa feels like they have a decent rapport going, so she doesn’t quite think through the question before she just asks it: “You didn’t want kids?”

“Ah, you know…” David takes a breath, his mustache dipping forward and back as he considers the question. “I like having her come visit, and my parents adore the kid, but… I’m a drummer in like three regional bands, and when I’m not traveling, I like my freedom. I’m never gonna be the guy that helps with a-a book report or science fair volcano.”

He pauses, and Anissa isn’t sure if he’s waiting for her to respond, so she gives an encouraging nod.

“But Grace wanted to keep her, and I at least don’t want her to grow up feeling like her dad doesn’t love her. So two weeks a few times a year? I can do that.”

“I respect that you know these things about yourself,” replies the boxer carefully. “And as someone who never met my dad, I can tell you that Hanh’s lucky to have love, however much she can get.”

“Do _you_ love her?”

Anissa lifts her chin. “With my whole heart, D. I’d die for that kid.”

His honey-brown eyes study her carefully, but he seems to find what he’s looking for and extends his hand for another firm shake. “That’s all I needed to know.”

_NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA_

By the time Anissa and Grace make it back to the house, they’re both exhausted, sore, and ready to pick a fight with one another at the slightest inconvenience. They shuttle from the airport to their parked car, a new Toyota Highlander in slate gray, and only just manage to get all of their luggage into the foyer before Anissa’s sure she’s going to pass out. Her sleep schedule is well and truly fucked, she hasn’t had a proper workout in a week, and… Well, she and Grace haven’t had a proper _workout_ in a week, either.

To top it all off, the house is eerily quiet without their tiny diva thundering around, and Anissa takes a long, hot shower to clear her mind more than anything else. Lynn meeting Grace. Done. Anissa meeting David. Done. She mostly just wishes now that there wasn’t another dozen weeks to go before their wedding day.

By the time she gets out, her fingertips are wrinkled, and Grace has dragged one of their suitcases upstairs. She’s sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of clothes, sorting through things that need to be washed or put away, and the two grocery bags of food they’d brought back is sitting near the door.

“Baby, we can do that tomorrow,” says the fighter, tying her towel around her waist. “Let’s go to sleep. You look like a robot.”

“I’m like, wired and about to crash,” sighs Grace as she rubs her eyes. “What day is it tomorrow?”

Chuckling, Anissa cheerily informs her, “Sunday.”

Pacing over to the splayed-open suitcase, the boxer feels an almost visceral jolt when she remembers what she’d stuffed into a folded shirt at the bottom, just about right where Grace’s hand is currently fishing for something.

“Wait, wait,” she blurts, stumbling as the artist looks up with surprise. “I, uh—one second.”

Inexplicably nervous, Anissa kneels next to the luggage and digs around until she retrieves the item in question: a small, green velvet box.

“What is…” Grace trails off, tilting her head. “You already proposed, babe.”

“Yeah, and I know we agreed this part wasn’t necessary, but…” Anissa opens the box, revealing an antique halo ring with oval-shaped blue gemstone in the middle. “My dad’s dad gave this to him, after my grandmom died,” explains Anissa haltingly. “He proposed to Lynn with it, and… now I’m giving it to you. A little late, but I hope it—“

With a tiny, choked noise, Grace throws her arms around the fighter’s neck so abruptly she almost drops the box, but by some miracle is able to place it on the nearby bedside table before the artist yanks her in for a kiss.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers against the boxer’s lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Anissa manages to get out between kisses, hands dropping to Grace’s hips. “After—the week we had—I just thought—it would be—“

 _“Anissa,”_ growls Grace, nipping her lip sharply. “Stop talking.”

The artist’s hands gently, but insistently push her shoulders until the boxer’s sitting on the edge of their bad. She starts a slow descent, planting warm, wet kisses along Anissa’s neck, shoulders, and on down until the fighter’s desperately gripping the comforter to stay upright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
>  **mẹ** \- "Mom", pronounced almost like the way you would say "yeah", short E sound  
>  **cảm ơn, chị** \- "Thank you, ma'am", which chị being the specific pronoun for a woman of your similar age or slightly older  
>  **đụ má** \- literally, "motherfucker", but kinda like an all-purpose "fuuuuck"  
>  **anh** \- pronoun for a man who is of your similar age or slightly older  
>  **bà nội** \- specifically, "paternal grandmother"  
>  **cho con nước táo?** \- "Can I have apple juice?", with con being the reference to the self, and that pronoun changes according to your relationship to the person you're asking


	2. My Beautiful Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The. Wedding.

_NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA_

It’s October in New Orleans, and the backyard of the Washington-Choi home is decked out in cream fabrics, pink, white, and purple flowers, and Edison-style string lights hanging over the heads and hats of the day’s guests.

From one of the guest rooms on the second floor, Anissa spots her sparring partner and dear friend Malia in a flowy marigold dress, her husband in a black shirt with black pants and matching, bright silk tie. Their daughter completes the look with a yellow dress with a black flower pattern throughout, her hair pulled up into two puffy spheres. Padman apparently had different ideas about color scheme, and he’s looking somewhat surprisingly clean-cut in a beige suit with white shirt and black tie. They’re sitting next to Quang, pastel pink shirt with 80s-level pleated khaki pants, and his mother, daughter, and daughter-in-law, the two older men yucking it up while the women in their lives laugh and obviously dish right back.

Instead of a stringed quartet, Grace and Anissa had elected to go with a piano and cello duo, two women who during their day jobs taught jazz music at Loyola University. They’re situated to the left of the small, raised platform Anissa, Khalil, and Gambi had built for the ceremony, the notes drifting with muted softness through the window.

Behind the platform, what had weeks ago been a somewhat post-apocalyptic-looking chicken wire arch now hangs heavy with flowers, vines, and leaves, a living tribute to the proceedings they would witness today. The high fences of their backyard might seem oppressive if not for the air fern planters hung along it, or the massive cypress trees dripping Spanish moss shading the space.

“Nervous?”

Anissa turns, carefully avoiding stepping on the bottom of her dress, to find Lynn regarding her with a watery expression, which has been pretty much her default look since arriving in New Orleans a week earlier. “Not really… Mostly just about accidentally dropping an f-bomb in my vows, spilling wine on my dress or something.”

Her mother’s wearing a ruched maroon dress, elegant and unassuming, ears glittering with a pair of teardrop diamond earrings. “Just a few minutes until we need to start heading down there.”

“Anything out of place? Last check?” prompts Anissa, mostly kidding, but they both need something to do for these final, agonizing seconds of waiting.

After circling her daughter a few more times than seems strictly necessary, Lynn nods and takes Anissa’s hands into hers. “You look perfect. Absolutely beautiful, sweetie.”

“Thanks, Ma.” The fighter grins and tilts her head, popping one hip to the side. “But of course I do.”

“Ha, ha. I guess if you’re making jokes, you’ll be okay. Your father threw up in the bathroom of the church ten minutes before we got married.”

There’s something about the taut feeling in her stomach that’s almost exactly like how Anissa feels before a bout. She almost wants to do some combinations to burn off the excess energy, but Jen had spent hours on her makeup and hair, and she supposes it wouldn’t do to get sweaty or tear her dress, either.

It’s a design by the late Amsale Aberra, pricey, but the moment she’d tried it on, she _knew_ it was the only one to wear in her wedding. White crêpe, slim fitted in the body before flaring slightly, the hem hanging loose to the floor. The top of the bodice sits high on her chest, but dives in a wide V to the small of her back on the other side, with sheer illusion long sleeves. An extra exhibition fight or two would easily offset the cost, she’d told herself. _Worth it._

The fighter isn’t nervous about the day’s event, that much is true. In fact, she’s been waiting anxiously for the onset of worrying and second guesses she’s seen in every rom com and serial drama—but they just never came. Planning and prepping for the wedding had been stressful, sure, and the past few days were stuffed full of greeting guests and rehearsals, last minute changes and details finalized on the fly.

That was all a roaring wind, abrasive and tiring, but the idea of marrying Grace, of promising forever? That thought was the deep calm and quiet of a snowy night.

When the door creaks open, both women turn to see Jen slide into the room. She’s looking summery and fresh in a coral mini dress that hangs just below the knee, and unlike their tearful mother, the youngest Pierce has been sporting a beaming smile all day. “You ready?”

“This is the last time it’s gonna be just us,” says Lynn, not unkindly, but with preemptive nostalgia.

“Aw, Mom.” Jen steps close enough that the three women can embrace in one big hug, careful of pinned hair and delicate seams. “‘Only love can be divided endlessly and still not diminish.’”

The timely use of a quote, as Lynn had done throughout their childhoods, makes their mother chuckle weakly as she kisses their foreheads and replies, “Anne Morrow Lindbergh.”

Before they start to pull away, Anissa squeezes her family tightly, and some of the weight of it all seeps into her chest. She looks between them as she says quietly, “I literally wouldn’t be here without the two of you, and… I’ll never stop needing you in my life, no matter what. I love you.”

“And we love you too, dumb as you can be sometimes,” jokes Jen, earning a sharp look from their poor mother.

They carefully help Anissa down the stairs to one of the french doors leading to the backyard. She hadn’t wanted a Princess Diana train by any means, but even the usually tomboyish boxer can admit there’s a certain luxurious feel to the modest amount of excess flowing fabric, especially with Lynn and Jen fussing over making sure she didn’t step on it.

Outside, she can see Quang standing before the packed house, delivering his little spiel about turning off phones as they’d rehearsed. His salt and pepper hair, usually in a perpetual state of bedhead, is nicely combed to one side except for one rebellious cowlick in the back, and there’s a white lily sticking out of the breast pocket of his shirt.

When he moves off to the side, Lynn slides her left arm through Anissa’s right and lines up shoulder to shoulder with her, squeezing her daughter’s hand. It helps, and Anissa takes a deep, steadying breath.

The musicians begin playing a rendition of _Somewhere Only We Know,_ and Jen leads Hanh, Flower Girl Extraordinaire, down the center aisle to a chorus of “awws” that Anissa can hear from inside the house. The toddler is wearing a smaller version of Jen’s dress, her shiny black hair topped with a flower crown of daisies that’s falling to one side before they’re halfway down the aisle. Looking shy, but smiling, she’s haphazardly tossing handfuls of white, yellow, and purple petals to the left and right, like they’d practiced.

Khalil Payne follows a couple paces behind them, smiling almost as nervously as the toddler is, but looking dashingly handsome in a light gray suit, with a shirt in a muted version of the girls’ coral dresses and a brighter tie to match. He’d been a good sport about being asked to do something usually reserved for children, his hands carefully folded around a white pillow holding their wedding bands.

Thankfully, the mini-procession makes it to the front without a meltdown, and then they take front row seats as the music switches to _Can’t Help Falling in Love,_ and all of the guests rise to their feet in a sweeping movement that takes Anissa’s breath away. Lynn uses her free hand to push open the French doors, and then they’re stepping out into the autumn afternoon with dozens of familiar faces beaming back at them.

Eschewing the typical ceremony setup, there’s no wedding party, just the officiant, Peter Gambi, front and center, with the brides exiting the house from opposite sides to simultaneously approach the front. It’s a small gesture, but one they’d agreed was an important symbol of how they saw their marriage: as a partnership, protecting and supporting their family side by side.

Anissa sees lots of Kleenex and watery eyes in the audience as she passes. Lynn’s dabbing at her cheeks with a tissue again with her free hand, nodding gratefully to her friends in attendance as they pass. Thao and Emy have their arms around each other, offering a joyous _whoop_ when they make eye contact. Stitch has one hand over her heart, the other offering a casual salute. Jen and Khalil are holding hands, Hanh perched on his opposite hip.

But as much as she loves them, all that melts away when she sets eyes on Grace Choi for the first time since that morning, when they’d sleepily kissed goodbye in the kitchen. That tradition, they had kept.

The artist is wearing a red _áo dài,_ a traditional Vietnamese wedding outfit. The deep crimson silk is embroidered with flowers in gold thread around the neck and bodice, the light fabric hanging nearly to her feet over loose white pants. Her long black hair is tamed into a curly updo, an asymmetrical bun, and most importantly, she’s looking back at Anissa like she’s taking in something holy, like she’s never seen the ocean or the stars before this moment. Anissa could be struck by lightning and barely notice for how much her world is nothing but the stunning woman smiling at her.

When the song ends, they’re left with Gambi under the arch, gazing at each other as he clears his throat. He’s looking sharp as ever in a three-piece tweed suit, and his bass voice wavers as he begins the ceremony:

“On behalf of Anissa and Grace, I’d like to thank you all for being here today, to bear witness to the promise of a life together, and a love forever. I doubt I need to tell anyone in this crowd that these women are forces to be reckoned with all on their own—and are guaranteed to be unstoppable together.”

There’s a soft chuckle in agreement from the audience, and someone blows their nose.

“I’ve had the privilege and pleasure of getting to know Anissa and Grace over the last year, and I’ve watched them grow alongside each other, not just together. We all experience growth, and change, every single one of us—but it’s how two people navigate the chaotic world together, how they make space for and support every new version of each other, that builds a great marriage.”

It’s a beautiful speech, it truly is, and Anissa will watch the recording of it in full dozens of times in the coming months, but as Gambi goes on, she can’t process a single word other than _Grace, Grace, Grace_.

It feels like decades ago that she spectacularly flubbed her way through their first interaction, in the doorway of Apartment 203 in the middle of the night.

_“I just moved in upstairs.”_

_“Okay. What can I do for you, Anissa? It’s late.”_

In retrospect, the storyline seems so clear, so completely preordained. Every awkward smile, nervous joke, every small touch building on a small spark. It bloomed into their first kiss, spontaneous and sweet. Every “learning moment” that popped up along the way.

_“Interested in what, exactly?”_

_“You. In seeing more of what you and me could be like. I’ve just been really bad at showing it.”_

All roads were leading to this day, a fixed point in the universe, and the spark had become a flame, so intense Anissa could barely breathe. They almost hadn’t made it here.

_“I can’t control myself when I’m with you, Anissa.”_

Thinking back to all the moments where they might’ve lost each other, Anissa wants _very_ badly to kiss the stunning woman looking at her with shining eyes, but then she vaguely hears Gambi announce that it’s time for their vows.

Grace goes first, her hands tightening around Anissa’s as she gets a couple false starts out of the way. They’d written their vows separately, so Anissa’s hearing the artist’s words for the first time, just like everyone else, drinking in every syllable as it falls from her wife-to-be’s lips.

“Anissa... It’s almost impossible to believe that I’m actually standing here, that this isn’t all just the best dream I’ve ever had. The days, hours, minutes, and seconds I’ve spent with you have been a crash course in happiness for me. I didn’t know how to handle it at first, but… You were so patient. Just like you’re patient with our daughter. You taught us to make room for love we didn’t know we needed.”

Seemingly knowing that she’s being discussed, Hanh cries out on cue, twisting in Khalil’s arms until he puts her down, and she shoots across the grass to grab handfuls of Anissa’s dress. Both brides and their guests laugh watery laughs, and the fighter picks up the toddler, soothing her little whimpers with a hand on her back, as Grace continues:

“And I promise,” the artist puts her palm over Anissa’s hand where it rests on their daughter, “that I will continue to learn with you, and always be open to whatever adventure waits for us tomorrow, or next week, or in fifty years. I promise to love you first, foremost, and always.”

Shifting Hanh’s weight, Anissa shakes her head when Gambi holds out his arm, offering to take her. The dress will be wrinkled, but the warm weight of the kid— _her_ kid—helps settle the fighter’s public speaking nerves.

Turning slightly to their audience, Anissa begins, “I, uh, don’t know if ya’ll know this, but the first time Grace Choi and I met, she shut her apartment door in my face. And I don’t have to tell anyone here, but—I definitely deserved it.”

That earns her a collective chuckle, and the proud look Gambi gives her helps, too. She turns back to Grace for the next part.

“But for whatever reason… you opened that door again, and again. No matter how bad I messed up, you kept letting me back in. I’m grateful every day for that, and for my life with you and this chunka love.” Anissa pauses to plant a kiss on the toddler’s cheek. “It’d be impossible to put into words how thankful I am to have you both in my life. So I promise to keep trying to show you, every day, every chance I get. I promise to keep learning from my mistakes, and to be the best woman I can be, to support and love you until my last breath.”

Anissa does put down her daughter for the next milestone, and Hanh attaches to her knee, but otherwise seems okay for the moment. Gambi holds out the pillow with their rings, Grace’s a thin yellow gold and Anissa’s a rounded, thicker platinum band.

“Do you, Anissa Washington, take Grace Choi to be your wife, your partner in all things?”

“I do.” The boxer slides Grace’s band onto her finger, into place next to the Pierce family engagement ring, and fireworks explode in her chest.

“And do you, Grace Choi, take Anissa Washington to be your wife, to walk by your side, come what may?”

“I do.”

Anissa watches, breathless, as Grace returns the gesture, the silver-white metal glinting in the sunlight. Her hands are shaking, but she manages to get the ring on, and Anissa grasps her fingers before they retreat. _I got you._

“Then by the power vested in me by the Internet and the State of Louisiana, I declare these two amazing women married. Kiss your wife already, kid.”

She’s more than happy to, and despite all her usual rationality, Anissa feels like the kiss hits different when their lips meet for the first time as wives. Grace wraps a hand around the back of her neck, keeping her close as the air fills with whooping and hollering, feet-stomping and applause.

“Mr. Grand Marshal!” calls Gambi over the din, pointing at Malia’s husband. “I present: Mrs. and Mrs. Washington-Choi.”

On cue, the back row of guests stand, lifting glittering brass instruments in unison. Jen hands Grace and Anissa two white lace parasols, and Lynn convinces Hanh to go with her as the brides head down the aisle, through the house, and out the front door.

Even though Anissa’s celebrity isn’t anywhere near her father’s, the contender is certainly a local favorite, and her wedding a subject of interest for LGBTQ+ communities online. As they lead the brass band out the front doors, flashbulbs go off, voices rise in congratulations, and the police escort for their second line is ready to go.

Khalil hands out red and purple handkerchiefs embroidered with W-C as the guests exit behind the band, but the people in the street who’ve waited to join the process wave tissues, socks, rags, hats, and shirts as Anissa and Grace lead everyone down the predetermined route. It’s a long circuit, taking them in a jagged square through the French Quarter, jazz music and shouting bouncing off buildings and drowning out the bustle of a Saturday in New Orleans.

And through it all, Anissa holds Grace’s hand tightly with one of hers, twirling and swinging her umbrella with the other, never more at peace in her life.

* * *

By the time the second line makes it back to the house, the party planner’s brigade of workers has rearranged the backyard space for the reception. They’d put down flooring for dancing, with tables on all sides, and a DJ is starting them off with John Legend’s version of _God Only Knows_ as Grace sips champagne at the long table reserved for the brides and their close family.

Delighted hollering alerts her to her new wife’s entrance to the reception. Anissa had gone upstairs to change into her _áo dài_ , royal blue silk with gold embroidery matching the floral pattern on Grace’s red one. It makes the artist’s heart lurch for what feels like the millionth time that day, and she can’t help but indulge in a long kiss when Anissa joins her at the table.

There’s speeches, and there’s visiting tables to greet each guest, and so many congratulations that it all begins to blend into a whirlwind of color and words and hugs— _so many_ hugs. They get separated at some point, and then dragged off for seemingly endless rounds of pictures in front of the arch. They cut the cake and take more pictures, and then Hanh has a meltdown that takes thirty minutes to work through before she falls into a fitful nap in the house.

So by the time Grace is tearing into her plate of steaming crawfish and crab, the sun’s setting, and she’s sure she looks like a serial killer for how brutally she’s breaking open shells and scooping out meat.

And, she could possibly stab the DJ with her tiny fork when he announces it’s time for “the brides’ first dance.” But like always, the smile that Anissa flashes her has the artist relenting easily, and she’s soon wrapped up in her wife’s arms for what’s actually the first private moment they’ve had all day, even though all eyes are on them from the tables.

It’d taken an embarrassing number of hours exploring Spotify to find “their song,” but when it first played from Anissa’s laptop on a rainy afternoon in bed, their eyes had locked, and the choice made itself. Leon Bridge’s _River_ is an unconventional choice, she knows, possibly sacrilegious, but the love that she feels for the woman pressing her forehead to hers was more than romance—it lived deep in her soul. The gospel tune had the right gravity to it.

_“Been travelling these wide roads for so long. My heart's been far from you, ten thousand miles gone.”_

“How do I look?” murmurs the boxer, grinning with her eyes closed.

“Gorgeous, and you know it.”

“Pretty comfortable, actually… and pockets.”

Grace chuckles and shakes her head, fingertips stroking the soft skin at the nape of Anissa’s neck as they sway to the winding notes.

_“Oh, I wanna come near and give you every part of me, but there's blood on my hands, and my lips are unclean.”_

“No second thoughts? Buyer’s remorse?”

The artist tilts her head back enough to look into Anissa’s eyes. The fighter’s tone is joking, but _they’re married for chrissakes,_ and she can see a stubborn flicker of insecurity. So she kisses her _wife_ again, sliding her hands over impossibly strong shoulders, and when they part, she whispers back, “None, baby.”

That lingering doubt fades from Anissa’s eyes, and she noses into Grace’s neck, breathing deeply against her skin as the evening fades to night.

_“Oh, take me to your river, I wanna go. Lord, oh, please let me know. Take me to your river, I wanna know.”_

And there’s more dancing, Gambi with Anissa and Quang with Grace, Lynn and Anissa, and more, increasingly slurred speeches. There’s _a lot_ more drinks, and when the party hits midnight, out comes a hookah and communal blunts. The conversations get louder and the stories raunchier when all the kids are finally asleep in the house.

Looking over it all, the revelry in celebration of love, is a private table. There’s a framed photo of Jefferson Pierce on one side, Nikita Washington on the other. Plates of crawfish and crab from the wedding boil are set out before them, plus a Red Stripe and a greasy burger for Jefferson, then a glass of white wine and a quesadilla for Nikita. Between their grinning portraits, sticks of incense burn slowly over a bowl of dry rice, smoke wafting into the air with a heady, spicy scent, and Grace sees Anissa’s smile widen every time the boxer looks over to see them. During a rare quiet moment, the artist visits their table to light two more sticks of incense, holding them to her forehead as she promises Jefferson and Nikita that she’ll do right by their daughter.

So the party goes, winding down only once the adults start falling asleep on the furniture, same as their kids. Jen helps hand out extra blankets and pillows while Khalil makes sure nobody gets behind the wheel of any moving vehicle, and after putting Hanh in her bed, finally, finally, they can all call it a night.

Grace isn’t sure how anyone “consummates” their marriage on the first night when she collapses into their bed at 3:41 am, hair still pinned in place and makeup saved for a later fight.

Her wife seems to be feeling the same way when she comes out of the master bath and crawls under the covers next to her with a long, exhausted sigh.

“We supposed to have sex?” murmurs Anissa after a long silence, even though her eyes are closed and she sounds halfway asleep already.

“Just tell everyone it was the best ever,” Grace teases, reaching behind herself to find Anissa’s arm and drag it over her middle. The boxer automatically shifts closer, curling against Grace’s back. It’s how they fall asleep most nights, and the artist is quite certain she’d struggle to sleep without her wife’s secure weight against her anymore. And that’s more than a fair tradeoff.

“You’re my wife,” sighs the boxer into the nape of her neck. “My _wife._ S’crazy. I love you.”

“We’re wives,” confirms Grace, and her cheeks hurt from how much she’s smiled in the last eighteen hours. “I love you, too. Go to sleep.”

Anissa doesn’t need to be told twice, her arm soon going limp and heavy where it rests over Grace. She follows her wife seconds later, warm and content.

There’s still a day of goodbyes and last-minute packing to go, and then the newly anointed Washington-Chois will get on a plane to Turks and Caicos for their weeklong honeymoon, their wedding gift from Lynn, and onward to the rest of their lives together, the boxer and the artist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See:  
> [ao dai](http://nationalclothing.org/images/2014/12/Vietnam_woman.jpg)  
> [ancestor shrine](https://watitravel.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/vietnam-worship-of-ancestor-custom-2.jpg)

**Author's Note:**

> I regret to inform you that the reason I spent so much time doing fluff in this fic is because I'm gonna put them through some shit in Pierce II.
> 
> yell at me on tumblr [@trashyeggroll](https://trashyeggroll.tumblr.com/)


End file.
